


Batman: Moving On

by Mengde



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Assisted Suicide, Ethical Dilemmas, Gen, Moral Dilemmas, Mostly a think piece, Other, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9493607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mengde/pseuds/Mengde
Summary: Batman learns that The Joker has a case of terminal stomach cancer and has three months to live.  Joker requests that Batman testify to a review board that he is competent to make this decision, so he can avoid months of suffering.The issue, of course, is that Batman doesn't know if he can.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write a Batman story, and this is what came out. The premise is obviously similar to "Joker's Last Laugh," except that story immediately spins into "Joker takes over the world and then isn't actually dying because status quo is God." This story does not do that.
> 
> CW for not holding back on characterizing the precise nature of Joker's and Harley's abusive relationship.

Deep within the walls of the most secure mental-health facility in the eastern United States, two words ring against bulletproof glass.  The glass itself, which serves as the front wall of a cell, has black letters stenciled onto it: DOE, JOHN.

The words are, “Hello, Bats.”

Batman narrows his eyes within the cowl of his suit.  The man on the other side of the glass is dressed in a grey hospital tunic and pants.  The garments are uncannily dark against the bone-white of his skin.  His red eyes glitter, and his thin lips are curved in a smile.  Despite the cell’s total lack of amenities, his green hair seems immaculately coiffed.

“Joker,” Batman says.  “I’m here.”

Joker’s smile widens into a grin, revealing twin rows of nicotine-yellow teeth.

“Step into my office, Bats!  We’ve got pressing business to discuss!  The kind of stuff that’s best talked about –” he gives the security guard and orderlies behind Batman a pointed look – “in private.”

Batman turns to the guard, nods once.  With a grimace, the guard steps forward to the wall adjacent the glass.  He slides a card through a magnetic reader, then taps in a security code on a keypad.  The glass slides down into the floor.

“I’ll have to lock you in there with him if you want us gone,” the guard says.  “Standard procedure.”

“Of course,” Batman says.  He is already stepping over the glass into Joker’s cell.  “Five minutes is all I need.”

The glass slides up behind him.

Joker, still grinning, turns and makes a show of seating himself on the bare floor on the opposite side of the cell.  “So glad you could make it,” he says.  “Can I offer you anything?  Oxygen?  Nitrogen?  I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got in here.”

Batman crosses his arms, the nano-fiber weave of his armor creaking slightly.  The cell is only six and a half feet high; he has to slouch to keep the ears of his cowl from pressing against the white plastic of the ceiling.  “Get to the point, Joker.  If you’re just trying to waste my time, distract me from something going on in Gotham…”

The grin fades from Joker’s face.  “Nothing so clever, Bats.  I have a favor to ask.”

Batman doesn’t even try to keep the shock from showing on his face.  “You?  _You_ are going to ask _me_ for a _favor?_ ”

“Oh, yes,” Joker says.  “A favor.  Look at it this way: I’ve never asked you for anything!  Well,” and at this point he coughs in obvious faux-embarrassment, “apart from the usual requests for you to stop fighting, to die, et cetera.  But otherwise, I’ve never asked you for anything.  And I promise that after this, I’ll never ask you for anything _else._ ”

With a scowl, Batman decides he still has three and a half minutes in the cell with Joker, and the sooner he hears the favor, the sooner he can say _no_ and be done with it.

“Ask,” he says.

Joker looks him dead in the eye, though Batman knows his eyes are not actually visible through the lenses of his cowl.

“I want you to help me die.”

Batman stares at him.

“What?”

“I had a funny idea a little while back,” Joker says.  “I thought, if I start pretending that there’s a horrible, burning pain in my gut, and it’s getting worse all the time, they might take me to Gotham General for a scan, or a tube up the keister.  And everyone knows that Gotham General is about as secure as a matchbox.  So I started doing that!”

Batman says nothing.

“And it was going really well,” Joker continues.  “So well that I started vomiting blood, and less savory things on top of that.  Let me tell you, I knew I was good, but not _that_ good!”

“So they took you to Gotham General,” Batman says.

“They did.”  Joker starts chuckling.  “And it turns out, that horrible, burning pain in my gut?  The one I decided to start pretending to have?  I really _did_ have it!”

He starts to laugh hysterically.

Batman waits for it to die down.  “Stomach cancer?” he guesses.

“The fatal kind.”  Joker wipes a tear from his eye.  “So.  The docs say I’ve got maybe three months.  The pain is going to get worse.  My choices are to get drugged to my eyeballs and spend the next three months as a drooling vegetable in a bed, suffer, or…”

“End it early,” Batman finishes.  “The easy way out.”

Joker snorts.  “Oh please, Bats.  You may have put me in a body cast once or twice, but would you purposefully condemn someone to a slow and painful death over the course of multiple months?  Seems pretty grim, even for you.  This isn’t the nineties.  You don’t need to prove how dark and edgy you are anymore.”

“What do you need my help for?” Batman asks.

“The state’s assisted-suicide law has a provision for people exactly like me – _crazy_ people.  There’s going to be a hearing.  They’re going to put me in front of a review board, and people from Arkham and Gotham General are going to offer their oh-so-professional opinions about whether or not I’m competent to make this decision.”  Joker levels a long, white finger at Batman.  “I want you to be there.  I want you to stand in front of the mic, in all your fancy Batgear, and I want you to tell them that you think I should be allowed to prance my way to the Pearly Gates before my otherwise God-appointed time.”

Now it’s Batman’s turn to snort.  “You honestly think you’ll be going anywhere _near_ the Pearly Gates?”

Joker waves his hand dismissively.  “Where I end up is just details.  The point is I want you to tell them to _let me die._   That I’m _competent_ to decide to have myself offed.  Can you do that?  _Will_ you do that, Bats?”

Batman opens his mouth to tell Joker _no._

And finds that the word sticks in his throat.

“I need time to consider,” he says instead.

“The hearing’s in a week,” Joker says.  “Go home to your cave.  Brood.  You’re good at brooding.  Just be careful your head doesn’t go so far up your ass that the ears start to poke your guts.”

“Not the way _I_ would speak to a mortal enemy who I was trying to wheedle into doing me a favor,” Batman says as the guard and orderlies return.

Joker waggles an eyebrow.  “I’d apologize, Bats, but you wouldn’t believe it.  And I have so few pleasures left to me, giving you grief being one of them. After all, it’s not like they’re bringing me more of your sidekicks to cripple.”

The bulletproof glass hisses open.  Batman steps out, restraining the urge to kick a dying man while he’s down.

No matter how tempting it is.

* * *

He has been sitting in front of the Batcomputer for ten minutes, brooding, before he realizes he has been doing exactly what Joker told him to do.

“Damn it,” Bruce Wayne growls.

“Is there an issue with the Batcomputer, sir?”

Bruce swivels in his chair to see Alfred climbing the stairs to the computer, a silver-lidded dinner tray balanced on one hand.  “No, Alfred.  I just…  I don’t know what to do.”

Alfred places the dinner tray on the table next to the Batcomputer.  “Whenever I have a problem, sir, I find it useful to analyze it logically.  First: what, precisely, is the issue?”

He looks at Bruce, who decides to play along.  “Joker wants Batman to advocate for his right to die.”

“Having established the issue in no uncertain terms, I then determine _why_ it is an issue.”

Bruce’s lip twists.  “That’s the thorny part.”

“Well, if the World’s Greatest Detective will allow me: what _is_ your opinion on assisted suicide, Master Bruce?”

“I believe in the right of an individual to determine when their life is going to end,” Bruce says after a moment of contemplation.  “After giving the idea careful, rational consideration, at any rate.”

“So, the simple choice to cease living a painful existence is not the issue,” Alfred posits.  “Perhaps the issue is, instead, that the _Joker_ wishes to make this choice.”  He cocks an eyebrow at Bruce.  “I do not think it unmerited to feel poorly toward him, sir.”

Bruce almost sneers.  “ _Poorly,_ Alfred?  He beat Jason to death with a crowbar.  He shot Barbara in the stomach, stripped her naked, and photographed her so he could show the pictures to her father in an attempt to drive him insane.  He psychologically destroyed and abused Harleen Quinzel.  He’s murdered seven hundred and twenty-eight people.  _Poorly_ is the most British understatement I’ve ever heard you use.”

Alfred shrugs, an almost invisible movement of his shoulders.  “With respect, Master Bruce, I use the term because I am honestly unsure of how to more accurately describe your feelings.  Do you _hate_ the Joker?”

It takes Bruce a long time to articulate an answer to that he’s satisfied with.  “I hate what he does,” he says, trying to ignore the voice in his head that tells him he’s not being honest.  “I hate the pain he inflicts, and the destruction he’s wrought.  But the man himself?  I don’t _know_ him.  We’ve been fighting so long, and yet I know nothing about him.  Who he was before the accident.  Whether he’s actually insane.”

“So, do you feel qualified to judge him?”

As usual, Bruce thinks wryly, Alfred has hit the nail on the head.

“He’s broken my bones, made me bleed,” Bruce says.  “But those wounds heal.  The ones that don’t heal – those wounds have all been inflicted on the people closest to me.  Batman has to be the one to testify, but they deserve a say as well.”

“Does Batman have to be the only one?” Alfred points out.  “Commissioner and Ms. Gordon should be able to speak at this hearing.  Master Dick could fly in from Blüdhaven to attend as well, if he so chose.”

Bruce nods.  “Oh, I fully intend to ask them if they want to testify.  But in case they don’t, or can’t…”  He looks up at Alfred.  “I need to talk to them.  I need to hear what they have to say.  If Batman ends up speaking for all of them, all of _us,_ then he can’t make a unilateral decision.”

With a slight bow, Alfred says, “A most equitable solution, sir.  Will there be anything else?”

“No, Alfred, thank you.”  Bruce reaches over and picks up the one item of technology in the Batcave that can pass for civilian gear – a smartphone, heavily modified but housed in a standard Android case.

“I have some calls to make.”

* * *

The Clock Tower stands tall and silent in the early-morning mists of Gotham.  Once upon a time, the building marked the hour with a bell.  Now, however, its lighted faces provide mute testimony to the dwindling days.

Now that it is occupied.

Batman drops through the concealed roof access door.  He lands, silent as ever, in the operations center.  Soft electronic glow bathes the room in faint blue light.

The woman seated at the enormous computer, twin to Batman’s own, doesn’t even glance over her shoulder.  “Hi, Bruce.”

“Barbara.”  Batman hesitates, then lays his hands on either side of his cowl.  Sensors within the armored helmet detect the precise placement of his fingers and trigger the egress command.  The cowl comes loose from his head with a hiss.

He takes it off, and is Bruce again.

“Your ears are sharp as ever,” Bruce says, coming to stand beside her.

Barbara Gordon looks up at him from her wheelchair.  Her brilliant green eyes crinkle in a smile.  “I also have a proximity alert for when people come through the roof access.”

“Cheater.”  He smiles in return, but only briefly.  “I assume you know why I’m here.”

Her expression hardens, gaining a sardonic edge.  She tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear, a nervous tic.  “I know everything.  That’s why you call me Oracle.”

“If I remember correctly, you came up with that name.”

“But _you_ use it because it’s accurate.  And now you’re trying to change the subject.”

Bruce realizes he is.  It is an instinct developed over long years of not talking about the confrontation in her apartment, at her insistence.  _What’s done is done, and we have work to do,_ she would say.

But now the work at hand has everything to do with it.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“I think,” Barbara says, “that it’s impossible for me to be objective.”

_Analytical as always,_ Bruce thinks.  “Suppose there _were_ an objective way to approach this – and I don’t think there is.  But even if there were, Joker asked Batman, of all people, to testify at the hearing.  He can’t possibly expect Batman to be objective.  Not after everything that’s passed between us.”

“But maybe that’s what he’s gambling on,” Barbara says.  “Batman _is_ the voice of reason, Bruce.  He puts aside his personal feelings to do what’s right.  Every time, without exception.”

“Which works, if Joker thinks his early death is unequivocally right,” Bruce says.  “But he can’t, can he?”

“Why not?  From _his_ perspective, it certainly is.  Do we trust him to realize that his perspective isn’t universal?  He’s a narcissist.  In his mind, everything he thinks _is_ absolutely true and right.”

“You have a point,” Bruce concedes.  “But now _you’re_ changing the subject.”

She makes a face at him.  “It’s because I’ve been thinking about it since I read the transcript of your conversation with Alfred.  And no matter how I attack the problem, I get the same result.”

Bruce nods.  “One you don’t like?”

Shifting in her chair, Barbara replies, “One that – well, if I tell it to you, I’m afraid you’ll think less of me.”

His stomach clenches.  On impulse, Bruce drops into a crouch, bringing him to eye level with her.  “Never,” he says firmly.  “I think the world of you, Barbara.  I always have, and I always will.”

The tension around her eyes eases a bit, and she gives him a quick, fierce hug.  “Thanks.”

He gently squeezes her shoulders to reassure her, then withdraws from the embrace.  “So.  Tell me what your result is.  No judgment.”

She takes a deep breath and launches into it.

“I want him to suffer,” she says, eyes cold and hard.  “As much and for as long as possible.  He doesn’t deserve any relief or respite.  He’s a monster who crippled and degraded me.  I don’t want to go to the hearing and have to see him, or hear him.  I believe in your code of no killing, you know that.  But part of me, a big part, knows that he’s going to die anyway.  And I wish that it could be me, pulling that trigger, if his death’s inevitable.”  The words having been said, her thoughts laid out, she averts her gaze.  “That’s how it is.”

Tentatively, Bruce offers her his hand, which – after a moment of hesitation – she takes.  He grips her delicate fingers tightly.

“I understand,” he says.  “And for what it’s worth, I empathize.  I’ll never truly understand what it’s like to be in your position, but I think your feelings are valid.  And I’m – I’m sorry that I had to bring them up.”

Barbara nods.  “I’ll live.  That’s what we do.  We’re survivors.”  Her lips twist in a bitter smirk.

“And we’re going to outlive _him._ ”

* * *

On the roof of GCPD headquarters, the Bat-Signal sits, well-maintained but no longer used.  Not since Batman gave Commissioner James Gordon a secure number he can text when he needs to arrange a meeting.

Of course, that communication goes in two directions.

Gordon steps out onto the roof, the midnight air chilly but tolerable thanks to his coat.  “Batman?” he calls.  “I’m here.’

Batman glides smoothly out of the shadows.  “Thanks for coming, Jim.”

“No problem.”  Gordon lights a cigar, shielding it against the cold night wind.  “I take it this is about the Joker.”  At Batman’s slightly startled look, Gordon explains, “Babs called this morning.  Told me about the situation, said you’re conducting a kind of poll.  Said that she already gave you her opinion.”

His old friend nods, the glowing white slits of his eyes narrowing.  “He did unspeakable things to you and Barbara, Jim.  I can’t speak to the board and say what we should do without hearing you out.”

Gordon takes a long pull on his cigar, swirling the fragrant smoke around the inside of his mouth as he thinks.  His service pistol, holstered beneath his coat, feels unusually heavy tonight.

“You remember what I told you that night?” Gordon asks.  “When he’d done his worst, and all I wanted to do was to beat the son of a bitch to death with my bare hands?”

Batman inclines his head.  “‘By the book,’” he quotes.  “You wanted him brought in, and by the book.  To show that our way works.”

“That’s the core of me, Batman,” Gordon says.  “The law.  At the end of the day, when the blood’s drying on the walls and the bastards are getting away with murder, that’s what separates us from them.”  He gestures at Batman with his cigar.  “You cross lines I can’t.  And one day there’ll be a reckoning for that, however grateful to you I might be.  But whatever liberties you take with absconding with evidence, and however many would-be rapists’ bones you break, you’re ultimately on my side.  The side of the law.”

“And what does the law tell us here?” Batman asks.

“That the review board is going to determine if the man is competent to make this decision.  Not whether he _deserves_ the easy way out – whether he’s _competent_ to choose it.”  Gordon pulls on the cigar again.  “We owe it to ourselves not to conflate those things.”

Batman crosses his arms.  “And will you stand in front of the board and tell them that?”

Now Gordon grins – a savage, hard expression, he knows.  The grin he gives a perp who’s just trapped themselves in a lie.

“No,” he says.  “You asked my opinion.  There it is.  The board can make their decision without it.  And if _they_ happen to conflate competency with deservedness, that’s their problem.”  He deliberately turns his back to Batman, giving him plenty of opportunity to pull his usual vanishing act.  “There’s the law,” he says, “and then there’s justice.  The two don’t always line up.  I don’t know where justice lies in this instance, so I have to go with what I _do_ know.”

He fully expects not to get a reply, but Batman says, “Thank you, Jim.  I understand the problem better now.”

Surprised – both at the fact that Batman didn’t just vanish, and that he’s actually helped the Dark Knight come to a realization about something – Gordon turns back around to ask, “Really?”

But his friend is gone.

“Typical,” Gordon chuckles, and finishes his cigar in silence.

* * *

Two days later, as he drives the Batmobile to his next destination for the evening, Batman speaks with Dick Grayson over the phone.

“Bruce, I appreciate you calling me about this,” Dick says.  His voice, broadcast through the Batmobile’s sound system, seems hoarse.  Ragged, even.  Batman wonders how things are going in Blüdhaven.  He knows better than to offer help, though.  Dick is proud of the job he does protecting his city, but not so proud that he won’t ask for help if he truly needs it.  “But I don’t feel like this is my hill to die on.”

“No, it’s Joker’s,” Batman says.

Dick gasps.  “Did you just make a _joke?_   I’ll call up Vicki, give her the full scoop.”

“Call Vicki Vale and the only story the _Gazette_ will be running is how Nightwing was found crucified in front of its office,” Batman warns him, not even trying to make the threat sound serious.  “Honestly though, Dick.  You don’t have an opinion?”

Dick sighs.  “Sure, he kidnapped me a bunch and gassed me a couple times, but in this business?  That’s the equivalent of sending a Christmas card.  It’s just something you do.  He never hurt me in a way that I couldn’t come back from.”

“Gordon made me realize that I was conflating two separate issues,” Batman says, not arguing Dick’s point.  “Whether Joker really is competent to make this decision, and whether he deserves the right to make it.  Alfred’s wise, but he doesn’t think in legal terms the way Gordon does.”

“Can we actually say if Joker’s competent to make it?” Dick asks.  “We’ve never definitively established if he’s actually insane.  And even if he is insane, what does that even mean?  It’s such a broad term, you know?”

“Exactly.”  Batman chews at his lip for a moment, conceiving of the best way to articulate his next thought.  “The board needs to consider both axes of the issue.  Whether he’s competent, and _if_ he’s competent, whether he deserves it.”

Dick groans.  “But here’s the thing, though.  Even if they find some grounds to declare him incompetent, or not declare him competent – whichever it has to be – the fact remains that he still wants this, and he knows he wants it, and he’s looking at months of painful wasting if he doesn’t get it.  Should that be grounds to approve his request even if he isn’t competent?”

“Or are those, by themselves, grounds for competency?  I don’t know.”  Batman pulls the car into a dark and familiar alley, kills the engine.  “Thanks for your thoughts, Dick.  I take it I won’t see you at the hearing.”

“Not even if you paid me.  Which, by the way, you never did.  Ever.”

Batman resists the urge to laugh.  “Goodbye, Dick.”

“Bye, Bruce.”

He presses the END CALL button on the dash, then shuts the car down completely except for its defense systems.  Then he pops the cockpit seal and emerges into Crime Alley.

Batman steps through oil-slick puddles and watching the sodium-yellow lights play his shadow across cracked and crumbling walls.  It was here, so many decades ago, that Joe Chill gunned down his parents.  It was here that the seeds of Batman were planted.

It was also here that he met Jason Todd for the first time, when he found the orphaned boy stealing the tires off the Batmobile.

It is here that he is going to meet Jason again.  Two days ago, he put out two messages through his underworld contacts.  One of them was for Jason, saying that he wants to speak with him.  Two hours ago, the message was answered.

The attack comes suddenly, though not unexpectedly.  He and Jason – who now calls himself the Red Hood, and deals with criminals in a far more lethal manner than Batman – have not been on good terms lately.

Jason drops in from roof level, planting a kick solidly in Batman’s back.  His armor absorbs the worst of the blow, but Batman is still sent tumbling.  He rolls back to his feet, turning to face his opponent in the same motion.

In the time it takes him to regain his footing, Jason has already closed to within striking distance.  He throws a barehanded chop at Batman’s neck, followed by a snap kick when that gets blocked.  Batman catches the kick, redirects it past him as he slides to the side, and plants a  knee in the small of Jason’s back as he flies past.  The sound of Jason crashing bodily into a wall is especially loud in the relative silence of the alley.

“We could fight for the next half hour,” Batman says, drawing back two paces and raising his hands in preparation for the next blow – if it comes.  “Or you could listen to what I have to say.”

Jason turns, the crimson helmet he wears as the Red Hood obscuring everything but his eyes.  “What makes you think I have any interest in talking, Bruce?”

Batman stifles the irritation he knows Jason is purposefully trying to provoke by using his name in a public place, no matter how secluded.  “Because if you were serious about fighting, you would have shot me in the back instead of kicking me.  The blow to my throat would have been a knife thrust.  And you didn’t deploy the blade in your boot when you tried to kick me.”

Straightening up from his combat crouch, Jason growls.  “You take the fun out of everything.”

“You never fought anyone for the ‘fun’ of it when we worked together,” Batman points out.

Jason shrugs.  “Coming back from the dead changes your perspective on things,” he says blandly.  “But if you want to talk instead of fight, let’s talk.  I hear the Gotham Knights just lost the AFC championship.  Too bad they won’t make it to the Superbowl this year.”

“Joker has terminal stomach cancer,” Batman says.  “The doctors gave him three months, and they’re not going to be pleasant ones.  He’s going before a review board so they can determine if he’s competent to commit assisted suicide.  He wants me to testify that he is.”

That makes Jason visibly stiffen.  “Are you going to?”

“I haven’t decided yet.  I felt that I need to speak with everyone in my life that he’s truly, irrevocably hurt.”  Batman nods at him.  “You’re number three.”

Jason sniffs.  “So glad I made the list at all.  But why are you telling me this?  You honestly expect me to be on your side here?”

Batman all but growls.  “Jason, for Christ’s sake, I _do not have a side._   I don’t know what I’m going to tell the board.  I spoke to Gordon –”

“Surprise, surprise.”

“And,” Batman continues, not allowing Jason to get under his skin, “he pointed out that we don’t know if he’s competent.  How do we even know what that means, in his case?  Then, even if he is, the other question is if he _deserves_ the choice.”

“There’s no question,” Jason snaps.  “He deserves to suffer, Bruce.  He single-handedly justifies the existence of Hell, if there is one – and don’t ask me if there is, because I don’t remember anything from the other side.  Forget assisted suicide, let’s see how long we can keep him alive while the cancer’s eating him from the inside out!  You can call Lucius and he’ll whip up some ridiculous piece of tech that’ll keep that monster alive for _years!_ ”

Batman turns his back on Jason.  He knows it is an unwise move, but he feels compelled to make it anyway.

“Jason,” he says, “I respect your feelings about this.  I don’t agree with them, but I respect them.  Frankly, I knew what you would say.  But I felt that – if I didn’t make the effort at all…”

The attack he’s expecting doesn’t come.  There is silence for several long seconds.  “This is your version of reaching out,” Jason says.  “You wanted me involved, even though you knew which way I’d vote.”

“Yes.”  Batman tilts his head back to look up at the stars, half-occluded by clouds threatening one of Gotham’s trademark unpleasant drizzles.  “I can never make what happened right.  I failed you.  You were my soldier, my good soldier, and I failed you.  But I thought, I need to take a step at some point.  One of us does.  I thought this might be a first one.”

There is no reply.  Batman turns and finds that Jason is gone.  He is alone.

Shaking his head, he heads back to the Batmobile.  He doubts he’s going to see Jason at the hearing.

* * *

The day before he has to stand up in front of a panel of strangers and say – _something,_ he is not sure what – his other message is answered.  The one he was not sure would receive a reply.

So he waits in Robinson Park, hidden in a particular grove of trees.

The woman who agreed to speak to him enters the grove.  The trench coat and large hat she wears effectively hide her features, but he knows from the confident, graceful way she walks that this is no trick.

Harleen Quinzel has come to meet with him.

Deciding on courtesy – this is a discussion, not an interrogation – he drops silently from the tree, landing such that its trunk is interposed between the two of them.  Then he moves out from behind it, being sure to step on a stick and several fallen leaves.

Quinzel starts, but doesn’t look particularly surprised.  Now that he is on the ground with her, he can see her face beneath her hat: pale skin, blonde hair, pale green eyes.

“B-Man,” she says.

“Ms. Quinzel.”

She shakes her head.  “Harley.  We been through too much to be all formal.”

Batman hesitates, then nods.  “Harley.  Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“I’m not alone, you know,” she says.  “Just in case you’re gettin’ any ideas about bringin’ me in.”

A root, moving with a life of its own, slithers over Batman’s left boot.  A branch dips down to brush a leaf against the side of his cowl.

“Ivy,” he says.

Pamela Isley – who is most definitely Poison Ivy to him – smiles dangerously at him as she literally rises out of the ground beside Harley, supported by a web of clinging roots and vines.  Her golden-red hair and green-tinged skin are matted with dirt, as are the simple tee-shirt and jeans she wears, but even as she settles onto the grass, the vines begin brushing it away.

“Batman,” she says.  “I would ask you to behave yourself while in my demesne.  There are twenty-two trees and innumerable strands of grass surrounding you.”  As she says this, she loops an arm protectively around Harley’s waist.  “You asked politely enough for a meeting, so there is peace between us – but I am here to support Harley.”

“Of course.”  Batman turns back to Harley.  “Have you heard about the Joker’s condition?”

Harley flinches slightly when he says the name, but her eyes are clear and defiant.  “Yeah.  Mistah J’s not gonna be around for much longer.  Boo freakin’ hoo.”

“Do you know that he’s asked to be allowed to commit assisted suicide?”

Her expression freezes.  “That, I didn’t hear about.”

“There is a hearing tomorrow, at noon.  To determine if he is competent to make the decision.”  Batman hesitates, then continues.  “He asked me to come to this hearing, and testify that he is.  But when I thought about what I might say, I realized that all the people he has hurt, _truly_ hurt – I’m not one of them.  I didn’t feel that I could go and give an opinion without consulting the people I know whose lives he has affected the most brutally.”  He takes the plunge.  “I can’t say I know everything that passed between you.  But I knew I wanted to give you the opportunity to make your voice heard.”

Harley squints at him, transparently measuring him.  “I don’t wanna talk to nobody about him.  I mean, I don’t wanna get up on the stand or anything.”

“I understand,” Batman says.

She chews at the inside of her cheek, a tic visible even from Batman’s position almost a dozen feet away.  “Let me tell you something, B-Man.  Speakin’ as a former member of the medical profession, I can tell you that I am a hundred percent certain Mistah J is insane.  But I can also tell you I’m a hundred percent certain that he’s competent to make this decision.  Mistah J’s never done anything by accident.  He’s never done anything without realizin’ what he was doin’.”

Her hand unconsciously drifts toward Ivy’s side, and Ivy takes it in her own.  “When we had a screaming match and he would get so mad he’d start breakin’ stuff, it was always _my_ stuff he broke,” Harley continues.  “When he hit me, he always hit me so that it hurt, but it didn’t break anything.  I mean, what hospital could we go to if he messed me up too bad?  When he made escape plans for whatever caper we were gonna pull, he always made two: one for both of us, and one for just him, if he had to leave me behind to slow you down.”  She smiles, but the expression has nothing to do with mirth.  “Those don’t seem like the actions of an incompetent to _me._ ”

“No,” Batman agrees.  “They don’t.”  And, now that she puts it that way, Joker’s plans have always been brilliantly executed, masterfully cruel.  No, Joker has been many things – but _incompetent_ has not been one of them.  Dick had been right when he’d pointed out that they were incapable of defining what competency might even mean in the case of the Joker, but he’d been approaching the problem from an academic, intellectual standpoint.  Harley was approaching it from a pragmatic one.

“Commissioner Gordon pointed out to me,” Batman says, “that there are really two problems here.  You’ve dealt with the first one – is Joker competent to make this decision?  You think he absolutely is.  The second problem, then, is if he should be allowed to make it.”

Harley bares her teeth in an absolutely wicked grin.  “Of course he should.  He’d be doin’ you a favor, B-Man.”

“You don’t think he should be denied an early parole, so to speak?”

The grin vanishes as quickly as it appears.  “Look,” she says.  “I been through a lot since I left Mistah J.  I tried being a good guy and fightin’ crime.  I tried goin’ back to being bad, and doing my own thing with it.  But everything kept goin’ wrong.”  She leans over to plant a kiss on Ivy’s cheek – an act, Batman knows, that would kill anyone else who tried it.  “I didn’t know why, until Red showed me.  She told me that everything I was doing, good or bad, all led back to Mistah J in some way.  Even though I’d left him, I hadn’t actually gotten _rid_ of him.

“So, how can I say that I’m past him, that I’ve moved on, if I stand here and tell you that I think he deserves to suffer?  What he did to me was wrong, and I’ll never forgive him for it.  But makin’ him hurt won’t make me better.  As far as I’m concerned?  Lettin’ him kick the bucket early means that’s less time I gotta spend in the same world as him.  And that’s all I gotta say about it.”

Batman nods.  “I see.  Do you want to be present at the hearing tomorrow?”

“Nah.  Red and I got plans.”  She holds up her left hand, and for the first time, a simple, unadorned band of plain silver is visible on her ring finger.  “We’re gonna go find a better ring, for when we tie the knot.”

Taken aback for a moment, Batman recovers his wits quickly enough.  “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”  Harley smirks at him.  “And I can tell that you want to say it, but also don’t wanna seem ungrateful after I came and told you how I felt.  So I’ll just tell you that we’re gonna _buy_ it.  No stealin’ for us.”

“Good luck,” he says, unable to think of anything better.  He decides, too, not to question whether the money they intend to use was itself stolen.

Ivy gives him a wink.  “Thank you,” she tells him, “but we make our own luck.”

As they turn to leave, something moves Batman to speak once more.  “Harley,” he says.  “Would you give me permission to quote you at the hearing?”

Harley thinks for a moment, then shrugs.  “Sure!  Why not.  Maybe it’ll piss him off.  Later, B-Man.”

They saunter away into the park, and Batman realizes that there is no one else he feels he needs to, _can,_ talk to.  The hearing is tomorrow.  There are no more ways for him to stall.

Now he needs to decide what _he_ is going to say.

* * *

The hearing is held inside Arkham Asylum, to minimize the amount of distance security has to move the Joker.  The room selected is the Amadeus Arkham Conference Room, a space of dark woods and severe, high-backed chairs.  The board is made up of three people: Judge Reinholdt of the Gotham Superior Court, a venerable legal figure who Batman knows has never been involved with organized crime, which is a rarity for Gotham judges; Doctor Fairchild, the head psychologist at the Asylum and a perpetual skeptic about Batman’s own sanity; and District Attorney Ishikawa, a star lawyer who was elected after Harvey Dent left the position, and a common sight in the prosecutor’s seat in trials of Batman’s most infamous enemies.  Batman knows all of them well.

Apart from Joker and the gaggle of security guards surrounding him, all seated in the front row, few are present who are not on the board.  Several doctors, a few security personnel like Aaron Cash who wanted to testify on the matter of Joker’s competency, two patients with free-roaming privileges that Batman recognizes and knows are nonviolent.  A stenographer sits to the right of the board, ready to transcribe the hearing.

And, of course, Batman.

He stands at the back of the room, not feeling it entirely appropriate to sit down with the rest of the attendees.  This is their world, and he is a guest in it.  When it is time for him to speak, then he will come forward.

“All right,” Judge Reinholdt announces.  “Let’s get started, then.”

He reads from his brief: this hearing is being convened to determine the legal competency of the individual known as John Doe, or alternately by his criminal sobriquet ‘The Joker,’ to request the termination of his life to avoid extended suffering from cancer, and so on.  Batman stands silently in the back, ignoring the stares and whispers, as the proceedings commence.

Joker’s doctors testify.  The general consensus is that he is competent, though the precise definition of competency in his case is difficult to establish.

Cash and the other security guards testify.  _Their_ general consensus is that Joker should be locked up, the key should be thrown away, and the problem will sort itself out.  As Batman expected, they make little issue of his competency.  They are only attacking the problem from the angle of deservedness.

One of the patients testifies.  He tells a rambling anecdote about the time that Joker beat him savagely in a break room because he told a joke that Joker didn’t think was funny enough.

Silence falls.  District Attorney Ishikawa looks up from the notes she has been taking.  “Is there anyone else who wishes to offer testimony to this board?” she asks, looking pointedly at Batman.

Having been summoned, Batman strides forward.  He comes to a halt the requisite five paces from the board.  He ignores the Joker’s grin and jaunty wave from where he sits to the right.

“Very well,” Judge Reinholdt says.  “State your name for the – oh.  Well.  Strike that from the record, please,” he requests of the stenographer.  “Just go ahead and say your piece, please, Batman.”

Now Batman lets himself look at Joker.  He stares into those wide, glittering, blood red eyes.  He remembers every time they have fought, every evil thing this man has ever done.

“The issue here,” he says, “at least as I see it, is not just whether Joker is competent.  It is also whether he should be allowed to avoid pain and suffering, when he has inflicted so much of it on so many innocent people.”

There is a murmur of assent from behind him; he recognizes Cash’s voice among them.

“The medical professionals among us have testified to Joker’s competency,” he continues.  “The security professionals here, and Mr. Sykes –” he indicates the patient who spoke earlier – “have testified to Joker’s cruelty.

“Joker himself asked me to come here and tell you that I believe he should be allowed to die.  Initially, I was hesitant.  But after speaking with the people in my life that he has injured most, and hearing their thoughts on the matter, I decided that I needed to come.  Not for him, for the favor he asked of me, but for them.  To represent their voices.

“Some of them do not believe Joker should be allowed to escape his fate so easily.  Some pointed out that the letter of the law in this instance – if he is found competent, he should be allowed to do this – and the application of justice are not necessarily the same, despite justice being the goal of law.  Some believe that not only should he be forced to face his fate, he should also be made to suffer _more_.

“However, it is the words of Harleen Quinzel I would like to repeat in more detail here today.  Ms. Quinzel, who this board will remember as a former doctor here at Arkham Asylum, was systematically gaslighted and abused for years by this man.  He seduced her to a life of crime, displayed a flagrant disregard for her well-being, and used continued promises of love and devotion to bind her ever closer to him even as his excesses grew more damaging to her.”

Joker is staring daggers at him now, his gaze almost physically dangerous, but Batman ignores him.  He is going to make his point.

“When I asked Ms. Quinzel for her opinion, she told me this: she believes he is competent, first and foremost.  She believes he has always known what he is doing, in every respect.  And, despite everything she has been through, she told me that she believes he should be allowed to make this decision to end his life early.  She believes there is nothing to be gained by the imposition of unnecessary suffering.  She merely wants to move on.  And she authorized me to communicate this to you today.”    

Batman indicates the Joker with a wave of his hand.  “I believe that is what is best for all of us.  That, instead of prolonging his existence to satisfy some desire for vengeance or equanimity on our part, we do what is best for Ms. Quinzel, and ultimately, for us all: we let him go.  We move on.”

There is a long moment of silence.  Finally, Doctor Fairchild speaks up.  “Is that all?” she asks.  For once, she does not look as though she is afraid Batman is going to turn rabid on her.

“All that I want to say for the record, yes.”

“Then this board moves for a recess, to allow us to confer,” Judge Reinholdt says.  “We will reconvene when we have reached a decision.”  He nods gravely at Batman.  “Thank you for your time and your words.”

The security guards rise and begin to pull their charge to his feet, but Batman takes two steps to interpose himself in front of the Joker.  The guards take the hint and give the two of them space. 

Batman waits until the board has left, and the other attendees of the hearing begin to file out.

“I want you to know,” Batman says, leaning in close and hissing into Joker’s face.  “I agree with the majority.  I think you should suffer.  I think the quick and painless way out is too good for you.  A good friend of mine, the day you asked me to come here, asked me if I hate you.  I told him I hate what you do, the pain you’ve caused.  But, if we’re being honest?  I look up to my friend.  I want him to think well of me.  So I lied to him when I said that.”

Joker grins at him.  “I knew you had it in you, Bats.”

“It was only when Harley told me how she felt that I realized it,” Batman continues.  “That I could have it both ways.”

The grin fades, just a little, from that detestable face.  “What?”

“The board is going to decide in your favor,” Batman says.  “I have no doubt of that.  Not given what we’ve heard today.  But I am also just as confident that they’re going to decide in your favor because of what I told them.  That’s why you wanted me here, after all.  You knew my words would hold the most weight.”

“Still not seeing the funny side,” Joker growls.

Batman straightens up, letting his hand fall away from the Joker’s chest.  He knows, instinctively, that it is the last time he will ever have to touch this loathsome being.

“But they weren’t my words,” he says, and for the first time ever, in their entire twisted relationship, he smiles at the Joker.  “They were Harley Quinn’s.”

Joker’s eyes widen.

“The woman you used, and tried to destroy, the woman who you think of as worth less than garbage, is the only reason you’re going to get what you want,” Batman says.  “You’ll go to your grave knowing that, Joker.  I trust that whatever physical pain you escape this way, it’s nothing compared to the pain that knowledge will cause you.”

He walks out of the Amadeus Arkham Conference Room, and does not look back.

Not even when he hears the hysterical laughter rise, and rise, and become indistinguishable from a scream.

The world is moving on.


End file.
